


The Truth

by hlmedinfl



Category: Makai Ouji: Devils and Realist
Genre: Angst, Blood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-09 17:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6917257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlmedinfl/pseuds/hlmedinfl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dantalion sets out on his revenge, and William is left with the tough task of forgiving him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth

"You know, he'd love you if you let him," she says.  
  
William sits on the bridge, his legs dangling above the stone. The cool night air tickles through his jacket and makes everything a little more bearable.  
  
"I… it's all so ridiculous…"  
  
Rushed out of her slumber, Astaroth looks weary. There are hard lines under her eyes and around her lips. She leans against the railing, elbows propped, feet steady. There's something about her that's different. William can't quite place it. It's like she's lost whatever it is that makes her a demon, like she's a little more human now.  
  
"It doesn't have to be." Her eyes are soft and muddled in the weak light. "You could talk to him."  
  
 William turns his head away. The river looks black, the reflection of the light tapering in the ripples. His head clears, the sudden outburst seems silly and immature. He needs to placate it. "It's just… a lot has happened. You weren't there…"  
  
He hopes she knows he's not blaming her.  
  
"If I had been, would it have made a difference?"  
  
He doesn't turn to look at her expression. "I'm not sure. But things might have been easier…" His mind starts wading back to the events of the past several weeks. The memories are thick, hard to forget, impossible to forgive: he has to stop.  
  
His consciousness bobs to the surface just as Astaroth tells him, "He loves you, William. He knows that. You know that. We all do. That's why he did it. That's why he…" She stops herself. He swallows his breath, fearful, enthused, yearning for what she'll say next. Love can't possibly be the reason why he did the things he did. And yet, she thinks… They _all_ think…  
  
"That's why he came back," she resumes. Her voice is unsteady. Uneven. So unlike herself. He'd heard she hadn't yet resumed her position as the Southern King. It's probably the truth. Will she rest once again when everything is over?  
  
_Is_ everything over?  
  
"He came back for you, William."  
  
William looks up. Stratford and its myriad of stars stare back at him.  
  
"I wish he hadn't."

* * *

 _"Let them go!" He's shaking, but Dantalion can't see._  
  
_He's finally gotten him alone. Away from Gilgamesh, away from the blood in the dining hall and the lies._  
  
_But it's not enough._  
  
_"I can't, William." Dantalion's speech is short and clipped. "It's too late now."_

* * *

"You can't wish him away any more than he can wish away the things he's done." Astaroth looks hurt. Disappointed. Her hair whispers in the breeze.  
  
William's best instincts tell him that it's impossible to go back to the way things were.  
  
"Then what should I do then?" He asks. It's not desperate sounding. It's cold and logical. He can tell how the question probes into Astaroth, the slight wince on her lips, her downcast eyes. A single moth floats above her in a stream of light. Winter is thawing.  
  
"The only thing you can do, William," she says his name like it's a sharp pieces of glass; she's careful with it, but she won't let it cut her. "Forgive him."

William takes a deep breath. "It's not that easy."

* * *

 _When William sees the envelope, he almost thinks it's from Baphomet. He thinks he's awaken from a dream and that the dinner invitation is the same one he saw months ago. He thinks things will be different now. He knows there's a trap waiting for them there, and he knows how to prevent it this time._  
  
Only, it's not from Baphomet.  
  
The script is scrawling and cursive and flourished, but even then he knows who it's from.  
  
The writer doesn't wait.  
  
"Shall I let the head chef know you're coming?"  
  
Gilgamesh looks every bit the same as he always has: the same calm smile, the same unsmiling eyes that never seem to linger on anything. It makes William nervous, but he's too nervous to let it show.  
  
"Will Dantalion be there?" It's the question that's been on his mind since he saw the invitation. A full 90 seconds later, and he can only just control the anxiousness in his voice.  
  
"Why of course."  
  
Gilgamesh is dressed sharp, hand gloves as white as ivory. He places his hand on his chest and bows, a gesture so much like Kevin's that William starts to feel sick with anticipation.

"Who else will be there?"

His eyes dip to the floor.

"Why don't you come and see?"  
. . .

Dantalion's mansion isn't as grand as William remembers: it's _much_ grander. Red banners hang from the balconies and walls. Two rows of servants line the entryway straight into the mansion's innards. It's not Baphomet's sun-dappled curtains and wide bay windows. In here, the race for Emperor seems claustrophobically close.  
  
William is seated across from Sitri at the table. He knows there's something wrong, even before he sits down. Sitri hasn't seen him in weeks and that's too long for him to go without saying something. But Sitri says nothing and William can't contain his suspicions.  
  
"What have you done to him?" He demands of Gilgamesh.  
  
"Ah yes," he says. "He really is quite fine. We just gave him something to calm his nerves. He seemed so anxious about seeing you."  
  
"You drugged him. What are you trying to do?"  
  
"Just trying to have a pleasant dinner," Gilgamesh chuckles. He stands at the back of Sitri's chair and takes the knife from the place setting. "I assure you he's quite alright."  
  
Without warning, he plunges the knife into Sitri's arm. William can't contain his gasp, but Sitri is silent, blinking at the same slow, melodic pace.  
  
Gilgamesh removes the knife and licks the blade clean. "See? He can't feel a thing."  
  
"You're a monster," William snarls. He wants to leave his seat and take Sitri with him, but the knife is still in Gilgamesh's hand.  
  
"I always found dinner parties to be a bit dull." He takes his seat at the head of the table. "Ah, well, never mind that. The first course should be coming." As if he had planned for it, demons burst through the double doors, platters spouting with hors d'oeuvres.  
  
At first, William refuses everything he's served, but Gilgamesh begs him to reconsider. "I really must insist you try the steak tartare. The cow was butchered quite close to here." He eyes Sitri as he says the last sentence and William realizes just what kind of dinner party this will be. He accepts the dish and takes one, tiny bite.  
  
"It seems our other guest isn't so hungry, however," Gilgiamesh smiles. He eyes one of the servants. "Perhaps you have something he can digest?" The servant bows and slips away. In moments he comes back with a bowl of red soup. He holds Sitri's cheeks and squeezes and inserts the spoon inside. William can see the steam rising from the bowl, but Sitri makes no movement besides a couple of blinks. Soup dribbles down his chin and the servant wipes it away.  
  
William loses his appetite even quicker.  
  
"Well," Gilgamesh offers, "I did say that that the first course would be unremarkable. Let's move on to the second!"  
  
More dishes arrive, circling around William like a masquerade. There are many meat dishes and William guesses Gilgamesh wanted it that way.  
  
The blood flows freely down Sitri's arm.  
  
"I don't want to be here," William says. He takes as little as he can and pretends to eat.  
  
"It's strange," Gilgamesh remarks. "I always found dinner parties in Hell to be so pretentious. Yet, when I'm at my own one, I can see what fun they are. Even better than the evening itself is the detail that went into planning it."  
  
"Quite right," William agrees without thinking. "It must have taken considerable thinking to kidnap the both of us."  
  
Gilgamesh shakes his head. "Perhaps one day you'll understand."  
  
The doors open, but this time a servant doesn't appear. It's Dantalion. His clothing looks nothing like Gilgamesh's. He wears a dark cloak, one that a traveler might wear, and does not remove the hood, even as he sits at the opposite end of the table. He smells strongly of blood and red has dyed his arms and hands.  
  
"Ah, I'm glad you could join us, your majesty." Gilgamesh inclines his head.  
  
"Dantalion!" William shouts. "What's going on here?" 

Dantalion flashes him a look.  
  
"Answer me, Dantalion."

  
"It's what it looks like. We're having dinner."  
  
A servant enters and serves wine. Dantalion is served first. It's a dark red and William can smell its velvet warmth without even touching it.  
  
Gilgamesh is served last. He sniffs the wine and his eyes glimmer for a moment. "To the future ruler of Hell." He raises a toast, eyeing Dantalion. Dantalion raises his glass and they both look at William to do the same. William doesn't move. Not until he sees a servant assist Sitri with a glass, raising a toast with a lank hand and a clawing grip.  
  
William slowly, shakily raises his glass. Gilgamesh chuckles and they all drink. Unlike the food, William drains the whole glass. The wine is silky and luscious and lands in his belly warm.  
  
"I'm glad you could join us, William Twining," Gilgamesh says. "Now onto business."  
  
"You want me to elect Dantalion," William leers at Gilgamesh. "I know that." He doesn't dare look at Dantalion. He doesn't want to know what his eyes will look like if he does, how his soul will churn. He looks to Sitri instead. "I know what you're trying to say. I know what you're threatening to do if I don't." He doesn't bring up how Gilgamesh brought him to the battlefield, how he saw Dantalion's lust for murdering angels strewn like seashells, white bodies cracked by his piercing waves of madness.  
  
"Do you?" Gilgamesh raises an eyebrow. He wears a big grin. He doesn't allow him to finish; he launches into smalltalk with Dantalion from across the table, but where Gilgamesh's suppositions flow into rumors and intrigue, Dantalion only responds with monosyllables. William watches the exchange, watches how Dantalion's eyes can never quite meet his.  
  
Dessert is last, served in little bowls, as if it is only an afterthought. It's the only thing William eats, taking spoonful by delicate spoonful to his mouth.  
  
He realizes it's the pear compote that Dantalion wished for back at Stratford all those months ago. Only now Dantalion eats with a kind of mechanical rhythm. It isn't Baphomet's, he realizes. They don't bother to place dessert in front of Sitri.  
  
The scene's all wrong, William thinks. Sitri should be on his third bowl of the stuff by now and Dantalion should be bragging about Baphomet's cooking skills and they should, all reluctantly, be having a good time in spite of themselves.  
  
But no one is happy here, except Gilgamesh who grins and grins, not touching dessert, fingers entwined around the stem of his wine glass, as if it's some darling tulip he keeps pressing to his nose.  
  
Gilgamesh catches his eyes. He puts the glass down. "Have you had time to think about your decision, William?"  
  
William turns to him, soured frustration pickling his mouth.  
  
"You're threatening to kill Sitri now, aren't you? All those angels weren't enough for me."  
  
"Come now. No one's asking you to do that." Gilgamesh chuckles, smiling, eyes pinched into black crescents. "We're only having a nice dinner party here."  
  
Something like relief wraps around William. He wants to believe that. He wants to believe that things are still safe, that Dantalion will be like his old self again, that Gilgamesh will be gone soon.  
  
"Besides, we'll kill him regardless of what you do," Gilgamesh says it with a casual disregard. Sitri does nothing but stare.  
  
William slams his palms on the table. The dishes clink, but it's not enough to knock Gilgamesh's glass over.  
  
"Dantalion! How can you do this? How can you be with this guy?"  
  
This time William looks at Dantalion, stares desperately into his eyes; he regrets it. There is a darkness there the color of coagulated blood. William can almost feel it, the hands wrapping around his throat, crushing his windpipe, his thoughts spinning to an erratic rhythm.  
  
He has to look away. To Gilgamesh.  
  
"You." William's voice shakes with a coldness. "Ever since you showed up…"  
  
Gilgamesh leans back in his chair. For once his eyes are clear, devoid of the false humor. "All beings seek revenge to quell the storm of grief inside of them." His eyes flick to William. "Would you deny Dantalion that?"  
  
"Sitri had nothing to do with Baphomet's death." But he can see the threads of fate entwining, see how Sitri would be the perfect revenge. It sickens him and frightens him. "Why did you even take me here if you didn't want anything from me?" His voice is hopelessly weak.  
  
"But we do want something from you," Gilgamesh sighs. "Only three simple words and you can be out of here."  
  
"You think that will make you happy, Dantalion? You think that will bring Baphomet back?" He yells the words at the table.  
  
"You're my only happiness, William."  
  
The world is quiet for a moment. All William can hear are those words, echoed in his head, over and over again, until they become unintelligible, corruptions of what they once were.  
  
. . .  
  
_He wants to get Sitri out of here._  
  
_He wants to get Dantalion out of here._  
  
_**He** wants to get out of here._

* * *

William's hands wrap around the bridge railing.  
  
Astaroth still stands before him. She presses without lifting a finger. She wants an answer, but William doesn't think it's his to give. Not to her.  
  
"Those things he did. They're not the sort of things people forgive." He closes his eyes, pleading that the memories, the feelings of those memories, will go away. Only, he's been trying for days now, and it hasn't been working.  
  
Something like a sob escapes his lips. He's shaking, and he knows Astaroth can see. She comes closer. She doesn't hug him. She just stands there and looks at him. "We're not asking you to forgive those things, William. We're asking you to forgive _him_."  
  
"I can't," he says finally, from beneath deep, ragged breaths. He tries to hold everything down. He's lied to himself a thousand times that it's easier to hold it down. It's easier to fall back on rationality and reason.  
  
It should be.  
  
But it's not.  
  
"Didn't you know, William?" Astaroth asks. She looks so human right now. "The reason this is so hard is because you love him, too."

* * *

 _But William doesn't even have time to think before Ms. Mollins is brought in._  
  
Not _brought_.  
  
She _comes_ of her own will, or something to close to it.  
  
"My lord, the chambers have been prepared."  
  
It's only then that he notices the markings around her wrists, the way her eyes are downcast, and the strange aura about her, so much like Dantalion—like Baphomet.  
  
Revulsion comes roiling up. He needs to stand, needs to scream, needs to run. But he just sits there, dumbstruck. The words escape him, even as Ms. Mollins removes his plate. He'd seen her do the same thing a dozen times—collect the plates from younger students so they wouldn't get chipped. Her practiced hands move deftly. She leaves him without uttering a word.

Gilgamesh slaps her in a playful, heinous way.

Finally, William stands. "Dantalion, we need to talk."  
  
Dantalion stands, too. "Yes, let's talk."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a smile stir on Gilgamesh's face. He almost falters because of it. But when Gilgamesh starts to rise, Dantalion shakes his head and tells him to finish the wine.  
  
That's when he finally gets him alone.  
  
"Let them go!" He's shaking, but Dantalion can't see.  
  
He's finally gotten him alone. Away from Gilgamesh, away from the blood in the dining hall and the lies.  
  
But it's not enough.  
  
"I can't, William." Dantalion's speech is short and clipped. His arms rest on the sides of the chair like a king, but his eyes are downcast. Reverent. "It's too late."  
  
"Of course you can! Gilgamesh is your servant, isn't he? He'll listen to you." William bends down.  
  
"It's not that easy."  
  
"How can you say that?" The words come out louder than they're meant to. They wash over the posh furniture and expensive fabric in the room. They strip everything down, revealing the decay underneath.

"Why did you bring me here?" He asks instead. His knees are starting to get weak.

Dantalion takes a steady breath and swallows.

"I wanted you to know the truth, William. I wanted you to know who I really am."

"And what is that?"

He doesn't say it, but words linger in the air, at the tip of William's tongue.

"Why?" William asks. The kneel becomes necessary, as if there are so many things bearing down on him. Memories heaped on memories threaten to overtake him. He has to keep it all inside. For Dantalion, he tells himself.

"Because I promised I wouldn't betray your soul. This is the real me, William. I didn't want you to hear it from anyone else."

"I..." William's mouth runs dry. "You don't have to be like this. You can get rid of that Gilgamesh guy and let the others go. We could go back to school..."

For once, Dantalion's eyes smile. They're bright amber and blood red, hopeful and fearless. William's heart sings, but he doesn't know what to call this new emotion. Not yet.

"It's too late for that, William."

"Please..."

"I won't bother you again, William. No demon will. You can forget about me and this place."

"No..."

"I thought you would say that." Dantalion smiles. It's a sad smile, the sort of smile that has always made William forget to breath. "But the truth is, William, that you shouldn't care about demons at all, especially demons like me."

"Dantalion, I do care about you!"

Dantalion stands. He pats William's hair gently and whispers in his ear, "after tonight, I hope you won't." He starts to leave.

_William tries to catch up with him but Dantalion holds a finger in the air. The ground bends, the air gasps, and William hears, "it's time to go home now, William. You don't need to see this."_

* * *

He walks off the bridge, out under the stars. Astaroth doesn't follow him. The grass is soft under his shoes, half-alive and thawing.  
  
He spots Lamia looking up at the pale stars.  
  
She's not like Astaroth. She has her mother's same tired eyes, but she's more of a demon now and less of the little girl who tormented him all that time ago. She's grown, but not any taller. She's the present ruler of the South, and she's growing into it well.  
  
"You're here to apologize, too?" He asks.  
  
_Just because Dantalion loves you_ …, he hears her say from another time.  
  
"For what? _You_ should be the one apologizing!" It's the same tone: supercilious and jealous. "After everything he's done for you…" The girlishness in her voice subsides. He spots the adult in her, the kind of person she'll grow into. Pent up rage melting into something cool and severe.  
  
He can't say she wasn't there. He can't say she didn't see. She had to have noticed the change in him like the way a summer breeze brings a thunderstorm. Had she been too busy to notice?  
  
He remembers Ethiopia. No, perhaps she'd been counting on it.  
  
"So you want me to forgive him?"  
  
"It's not for me to decide if you do that or not," she shrugs nonchalantly. "I'm only doing this because Asta said it would be a good idea, but it obviously isn't working."  
  
She walks away, heading away from the bridge and him, back to the demon world. He feels the curtain rings of reality shudder as she rips at the dimensions. Suddenly, she turns back. Just her head, but it's enough for him to see the tiredness around her eyes. "Just know I had to forgive him, too."  
  
She disappears before he can say anything.

* * *

 _William doesn't remember leaving. Suddenly, he's back in his room. Everything is the same, except for the sour feeling in stomach from too much wine._  
  
_His knees press against the floorboards, painful from his full weight. He thinks he'll vomit, but he cries instead. His eyes get red and swollen. His lips can't stop trembling._  
  
It _hurts. But he's not sure what_ it _is yet._  
  
_By the time Uncle Barton checks up on him, the worst of it is over._  
  
_"You aren't coming down with something are you?" The man looks perplexed. He reaches for his forehead, but stops himself._  
  
_"No, I just forgot to close the window before I fell asleep, Uncle."_  
  
_"Be sure you do so next time," he says with an authority he doesn't own, "you never know what kinds of diseases can get into your blood."_

* * *

He looks the same as he did the last time William saw him, straight-backed against a tree instead of a throne this time. He looks the same as he did the first time William saw him, _too_. Unknowable yet familiar. William doesn’t get too close. There’re still many things he’s afraid of, many things he’s angry with, many feelings that tangle and burst and scream in that distance between them.

It’s silent for a while.

"So that was the real you, huh? That's what you wanted me to see back there. You thought I'd hate it?"  
  
"All of me is the real me." It's a sober response. He sees Dantalion start to put his hands in his coat pockets, but then something happens and he pulls them away. "All of me is a—"

"You're not a monster, Dantalion," William digs his hands into his own coat pockets. It's not as warm as he'd like in there, but it'll have to do.

"You're wrong William—"

"I'm not wrong!" William bites out. It's freezing and he'd like to hurry and get back inside and hurry and get Marchi into April and hurry and get Dantalion to stop believing the lies he's been told. "It's everyone else. They're wrong." He's almost shaking, but it's probably from the cold. "You're not," he chokes. "You're not what everyone thinks you are."

Dantalion looks up. It's dark so William wonders why he can see his eyes so well. Those eyes are waiting for something.

William comes close, and then closer. The smell that surrounds him is Dantalion: ash and embers and copper and home.

"There's something I want to tell you, Dantalion. Will you listen?"

 "What is it?" Dantalion asks.

"The truth."

He waits for Dantalion to leave. He waits for him to fall to Hell and climb his way to the throne. He waits for a life without demons, without forgiveness, without love.

But those things don't happen.

"I want you to know the truth, what I really feel," William whispers, drowning into Dantalion's scent. "Will you listen?"

Dantalion doesn't move until William tells him. And he doesn't speak until William finishes. And he doesn't leave until William says goodbye.

Which he never does.

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of the fic were inspired by Benjamin Alire Sáenz's Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe and NBC's Hannibal. The former I recommend to anyone, and the latter I recommend to anyone who has the stomach for it.


End file.
